Like a Coin Hiding in the Corner.

The kids' table, which I
graduated from this year.

I've spent all thirty-six Christmas Eves of my life at my maternal grandmother's house surrounded by family.

I love being able to say this so much.

I mean, yes, I often wish I could take an entire bottle of nerve pills to gear up for it, because let's face it:

• I haven't provided anyone with grandchildren or great-grandchildren. 
• I'm still unmarried (apparently unhappily, though that's news to me) ;-). 
• I sometimes straighten these curls which I'm told others would kill for (?!), and not everyone prefers that style. 
• I'm human, and I often get grumpy. 
• And, well, it's the most wonderful time of the year. 

My mother and my Aunt Kathy
clearly found the nerve pills.

So rather than basking in the wonder of our Lord's birth, I'm guessing like most of America, I pathetically spend a lot of my pre-Christmas Eve days rushing around for last-minute gifts and cooking for parties and wrapping things and getting stressed over traffic and worrying about not helping my mom prepare for house guests (one of whom is me - yikes!) and cleaning up my own place and what time are we supposed to be everywhere and who-said-what-about-that-again-it's-CHRISTMAS-for-the-love-of-Pete-where's-the-peace-on-earth-we're-FAMILY, all while working paid jobs and living and such, too.

And I would say and maybe have said these things to the Moores, because we deeply love each other, and that old adage about standing in front of a train for any of my family members? I'd totally do it. I mean, I naturally don't want to have to, but I love them so much.

Russ and Greg missed me a lot at
the make-up session and were so
sad they had to text me this picture.

So craving for nerve pills or not, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else come December 24th. You know. We're family.

If you've hung in this far, you get the picture about Christmas Eve at Nan's.

We are a deep fried, Southern bunch who truly loves one another. We are family. Sometimes I'm one of only a few of us nine grandchildren who can be there. A couple of times, the stars (a.k.a. family/in-law rotations) have aligned, and we've all made it, even our Tennessee family who often can't come because of pastoral obligations. Those years get rowdy, as well they should, but man, are they ever the best of times!

Aunt Renee and I
model this year's bling.

Whatever the case, Christmas Eve always has a special facet about it -- sometimes the Toddler of the Year says hilarious things that crack us all up, maybe we're mourning a loss or a harsh blow of life, once in a while my uncles' jokes make my neck wildly splotch up like I have a rash, occasionally my Aunt Renee' and I will fabulously glamorize the place with our must-have Christmas hats and bling, or sometimes we're celebrating new lives that have come into our world through birth or adoption or marriage.

Those of us in adulthood stopped an official gift exchange at Nan's long ago, which as far as I know, no one complains about. (Case in point: right now, I'm blogging instead of cleaning up my living quarters, which could be featured on "Hoarders" at any given time.) So obviously, less is more for me when it comes to intake of gifts.

Sometimes Jeff can't join us
because he likes to dress up
like this for work, so I try
not to complain. Too much.

This year, though, at age 36, I, with the others in attendance, received a gift from Nan. Not the very touching, so very Nan-to-a-T "Here's a little somethin', now you use it for something NICE!" gift, but a tangible, sentimental gift in the form of an old coin that was special to her and my deceased biological grandfather. (I love that I now note "biological" since Col. Cliff "Pop" Ball saluted his way right into our hearts and my family tree.)

Anyway, that coin may not mean a lot to anyone off the branches of our family tree, but in these eyes, it's downright gorgeous. And special. And not anything that I would trade for anything -- even the chance to sit down and chat with Loretta Lynn or Michael Card in person.

And that coin, along with my oversleeping for church this morning and looking for my own alternate means of worship, led me to reminisce on the Biblical parable of the lost coin today. If you're not familiar or need brushing up, Wikipedia summarizes it:

As recounted in Luke 15, a woman with ten silver coins (Greek drachmae) loses one. She then lights a lamp and sweeps her house until she finds it, rejoicing when she does.

In the Scripture, Luke 15:8-10 states:

8 “Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? 9 And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’ 10 In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”

So because I'm me, that reminded me of a great Caedmon's Call song. I know I need to get into their new stuff, but I'm so stuck in the 90s that I went back to an old favorite, "Where I Began."

I know if you're reading this, we're clearly BFFs, so I won't be embarrassed to admit that I started this morning praying for a bit of worship in lieu of missing what went on at my wonderful church without me, but listening to this song I can sing in my sleep simply ripped my heart to shreds today. Here's a YouTube version:

Lyrics are here, with things that particularly struck me emphasized:

The grass looked greener on the other side

So I tried to snatch myself from your hand

Caught a boat to anywhere but Nineveh

And, well you know, I got spit back on dry land.

A priceless treasure.

Give me purity and many continents

But oh no, not yet.

Like a coin hiding in the corner

Trying not to be swept

And I was trying not to be swept.

Kicking against these goads

Sure did cut up my feet

And didn't your hands get bloody

As you washed them clean -- you washed them!

Here I am again, back where I began

Try as I may I can't get away from you

And all of these roads that lead me to roam

Bring me back home.

Here I am again, back where I began.

So you have yourself your ninety nine 

Isn't that enough for you?

Still you followed me to the shadowed valley

Carried me on your shoulders too. 

I've done the work of Sisyphus

Thinking that I could get over this hill

But the one thing I can't get over now 

Is the force of your will.

Here I am again, back where I began

Try as I may I can't get away from you

And all of these roads that lead me to roam

Bring me back home.
Here I am again, back where I began.

Caleb and Steve Wood, Kaitlyn Lyle
and Uncle Rick Moore hear Nan's tale
of her coins at Christmas Eve 2012.

While I'm admittedly not the brightest, it's always been clear to me the "back where I began" portion of this song isn't a physical point on a map that Siri can help me with. I knew it was a location of the soul.
But the coin part -- that grabbed me this time. Maybe it was Nan's timely, timeless gift. Maybe it was my identification with really needing to sweep today. Like, literally. My floors look like a Macy's stockroom or something.

But maybe part of it was facing that I'm legitimately sore afraid of what can happen if I truly open myself up to all that God has for me in areas I've been fiercely protecting -- namely, relationships, how I can be of service to others in an official capacity, ways I can use talents. I've been burned in all of these things before (because I'm so special; I know no one else has, right?), and for the last few years, have been really freaked out by the idea of opening myself up again.

Greg and Nan clearly mourn
my absence at Christmas Eve
Part Deux 2012. It's heartbreaking
to see family this sad at the holidays.

Dust is pretty gross, and nasty things find their ways to corners, but wow, are corners ever the safest of places. Sometimes that safety can even seem better than venturing out, because, you know, what if the Owner doesn't rejoice? What if no one comes to the party the Owner holds for you and you just feel like a regular old coin? What if you're the coin that isn't so rare and valuable?


I'm thinking today, though, that when the Giver and Owner of the coin is family, the Owner of the coin will rejoice to find the coin, no matter how much pre-Christmas Eve hustle and bustle has taken place.

And I'm also thinking that the coin will feel treasured and will, in the long run, prefer that possibly kind of painful sweeping up process to the safety of a dark, dusty corner that may seem protective with its enticing quietness, where nerve pills aren't really needed.

I've thought before that I was "back where I began" in other ways, mainly spiritually. And I believe I have been. I just haven't, before today, seen myself as that rare coin that my Owner might rejoice and throw a party over if I came out of hiding in the ways I mentioned above.

So I'm off to sweep now -- literally -- and I'll do that grateful for my wrecked, ripped up heart, and for my imperfect self, and for both a Family and a family who love me enough to throw parties and send me texts and bring special hats to celebrate our time together.

And I'm hoping my "trying not to be swept" days are over, and my openness to what God has for me in these particular ways is not over.

So, as scary as it is to leave that disgusting corner, let the party* begin.



* If you'd like to contribute to this shindig by way of nerve pills, feel free to direct message me for my address. Thank you, and happy 2013!

Kicking Against These Goads.

I often resist anything involving discipline, or correction, or the general feeling that I'm wrong about something. But, as it turns out, I often AM wrong about things, and do need that discipline and correction.


That happened today. It didn't take long for me to appreciate the correction, which at the tender age of 34 1/2, is sadly still a relatively new accomplishment for me. 


Even odder than my sooner-than-usual gratitude for the correction was the reflection on other areas that much discipline is required for me, and how I should appreciate that, even when I'm the one who has to administer it. (Even after more than a decade of playing it, adulthood can still be a very tricky game for this redhead.)


The whole thought process reminded me of a lyric in one of Caedmon's Call's songs, "Where I Began."  The group sings, "Kicking against these goads sure did cut up my feet / Did Your hands get bloody as they washed them clean?"


The first time I really listened to that song, I was curious and had to look up the word "goad." So, with the risk of thoroughly disgusting every English/composition instructor I've ever had or known, I type the next few words.


Webster defines "goad" as: 1. a stick with a pointed or electrically charged end, for driving cattle, oxen, etc.; prod.; 2. anything that pricks or wounds like such a stick.; 3. something that encourages, urges, or drives; a stimulus.

And as it did that first time I looked it up, seeing the definition now brings to mind all the discomfort of discipline. 


Sometimes it physically hurts (look me up the day after a hard workout). 


Sometimes it emotionally hurts (I can describe way too many details of the day last year that my soul was so wounded by someone's words I felt I could barely breathe).


Sometime it takes its toll on the ego (who wants to be told they're wrong -- ever?).


But always -- whether it's well communicated, poorly spoken, or doled out in a negative or positive manner -- discipline takes its toll on the action or lack of action that brought on the corrective measures. Pavlov's dog is a prime example.


Chances are, I won't stop messing up or being wrong, even after I turn 35. Or even (gasp!) 40. 


And, with any measurement of grace dealt to me, I won't stop being disciplined for those wrongdoings.


So as I see it, the only variable here is how I'll react to discipline. I can kick against the goads, cut up my feet, and have to deal with the wounds and scars. Or, I can accept discipline as the gift that it is and learn from it with grace.


Let's hope I'll choose the latter, early and often. Goodness knows that after three decades, I've done enough of the former.

Caedmon's Call.

I'm a huge fan of musicians who write their own music.

I also enjoy other musicians' work, but singing what you write...well, that's a very big thing with me.

In college, when I first heard the Christian band Caedmon's Call, I was naturally drawn to their cool, laid-back melodies, but also the dynamically rich lyrics.

In a recent effort to finally organize the trazillion CDs I've accumulated since CDs came out, I came across my Caedmon's Call music, and, in turn, some of my old favorites. The fun part about being such a huge procrastinator is that rediscovery sheds light on things that apply now that might not've before.

This is the case with "Walk With Me," a Caedmon's Call song I always enjoyed, but now embrace hourly, align with in spite of myself, and put on repeat in my car at least once a week. The video is here, and lyrics are below:

Walk With Me

Walk with me quiet, walk with me slow

With watered down coffee and words of gold

'Cause I can feel the edges of these things

When I hear you speak to me, so walk with me

Walk with me empty, walk with me strong

The hush of our voices, when the day seems so long
It is like a balm, it is like a jewel
It unravels all I thought I knew

Will you lead me, beside the still waters

Where the oil, it runs over, and my cup overflows
You restore my soul

Tell me the story, where old is made new
The promise of ages, and all things that are true
When the shadows fall and the wrecking ball
Swings and tears me through the heart

Will you lead me, beside the still waters
Where the oil, it runs over, and my cup overflows
You restore my soul

Life is better off a mystery.

I owe a humongous shout-out to Sara Ferren, my third (?) cousin (who feels much closer, thanks to the beauty and love that was my great-Aunt Mildred, and her great-grandmother).

Sara posted part of these lyrics as her Fbk status tonight. In ways I probably couldn't really articulate to anyone today, I so needed the reminder of this song, and its meaning, and all that it refreshes my heart for when I delve into it.

A video clip of Caedmon's Call's "Faith My Eyes" is here:





And the lyrics to Caedmon's Call's "Faith My Eyes" are here:

As I survey the ground for ants


Looking for a place to sit and read

I'm reminded of the streets of my hometown

How they're much like this concrete that's warm beneath my feet



And how I'm all wrapped up in my mother's face

With a touch of my father just up around the eyes

And the sound of my brother's laugh

But more wrapped up in what binds our ever distant lives



But if I must go

Things I trust will be better off without me

But I don't want to know

Life is better off a mystery



So keep'em coming these lines on the road

And keep me responsible be it a light or heavy load

And keep me guessing with these blessings in disguise

And I'll walk with grace my feet and faith my eyes



Hometown weather is on TV

I imagine the lives of the people living there

And I'm curious if they imagine me

Cause they just wanna leave; I wish that I could stay



And to visit places from my past

But only for an hour or so

Which is long enough to smell the air

To tell the tale and find the door



But I get turned around

I mistake my happiness for blessing

But I'm blessed as the poor

Still I judge success by how I'm dressing



So I'll sing a song of my hometown

I'll breathe the air and walk the streets

Maybe find a place to sit and read

And the ants are welcome company



And I'll walk with grace my feet and faith my eyes

And I'll walk with grace my feet and faith my eyes

This was a favorite of mine in college, and I love that Sara can appreciate and live it as she experiences that stage of life as well. There's never a bad time to make the effort to walk with grace and see with faith.


(This, for the record, is by far not the best or only touching song by Caedmon's Call. Check 'em out. Their lyrics are heartfelt, Scripturally sound, and incredibly pointed.)

And thanks again, Sara.